


Perfect

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Johnlock ficlets [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Choking, Fight!lock, Fighting, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, M/M, Punching, fightlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:58:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5371049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Knees to either side of John's thighs, Sherlock licks bloody lips."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect

"Come on, I know you want to," Sherlock urges, in a near-shout, something threatening in it. He raises his chin, rolls his head tightly atop his neck, presenting a target.

John swings a heavy left, feels Sherlock’s jaw shift sideways, knuckles on fleshy lips on teeth, and blood flying in fireworks-specks to colour his fist, his face…Sherlock’s lip splits prettily and blood runs down his jaw, in a rivulet along his throat, disappears beneath his collar.

"Yesss…" Sherlock hiss-whispers then, sea-ice eyes wide, unafraid. "Yes.  _God yes_. Again."

The quiver in his voice makes John’s knees weaken and his fist tighten. A right-hand jab Sherlock never sees coming, and a bruise blooms blood-violet on the knife-edge cheekbone. John wants to bite it, ring it in deep red, make it sparkle with his saliva.

Sherlock ducks low, plunges forward, shoulder driving upward, and John is off his feet, then on his back. Knees to either side of John’s thighs, Sherlock licks bloody lips. Two pairs of hands fumbling, fighting each other at belt buckles, hooks, zips, buttons, cotton flys, until both their cocks are free.

Sherlock spits into his hand—hot, bloody spit—and wraps them both in one fist, jerks frantically as John moans through a dry mouth, eyes rolling back and falling shut.

"I know you want to," Sherlock repeats, "Come on. Come on, I know you want to…" A mantra. A challenge. "I know you want to. I  _know_  you want to. Come on."

John’s hips buck up despite the weight of Sherlock on his pelvis, fucking into Sherlock’s long-fingered hand, rutting against his swollen cock.

"Come on.  _Come on_. Come on," Sherlock urges, in rhythm with his hand, John’s hips, their pricks sliding together. "Come on. I know you want to."

John closes his hand around Sherlock’s throat (careful, careful…but fuck! he almost wants to kill him; it feels like wanting to kill him. Kill him and eat him.), bites hard on his own bottom lip. As he comes, John huffs grunting breaths so hard that spit sprays from the corners of his mouth. Sherlock is still chanting, “I  _know_  you want to, I  _know_  you want to,” and his voice gets huskier, less air to project it, and his face is dusky and John releases his throat and Sherlock sucks in air so hard his nostrils close and he comes across his hand, John’s belly, John’s cock.

Sherlock slaps John’s face, hard, reddens his palm against a day’s worth of stubble.

"Perfect."

"I hate you."


End file.
